


There Can Only Be One

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Barduil [16]
Category: Highlander - All Media Types, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: I should point out I've never actually watched Highlander, and now whenever I try to watch it I get impatient... whoops, because I'm dumb and read too many crossover fics with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 17:13:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: Their song is woven within the Song of Creation itself. They are the unwilling participants in a game created by Melkor when he sewed his seeds of discord. There is only one way to kill them, and the game ends only when there is but one of them left standing.





	There Can Only Be One

**Author's Note:**

> I've only read the Silmarilion once and it killed me, so if I got any information wrong, just IDK suck it up or something, because I can't read that damn book again. Oh my God!!!

“There can be only o-“ the blade moves through the air, silent, deadly. The head falls to the earth. He breathes the silence in deeply, and braces for the quickening. The sudden influx of power and memories. Desires and needs, goals and achievements, thoughts and feelings, and for a few seconds he is overwhelmed by it. But the moment passes, his body tingling, the air still, the night dark and silent in the sudden absence of light and sound. He sighs heavily and turns to begin the long walk home.

There can be only one.

He takes heads.

But he’s not a hunter.

_Not anymore._

* * *

_It is upon the shores of the Siril, as his kin fight and die by each other’s hand in the name of immortality, that he dies. He doesn’t care whether they wish it for themselves, or they deny it for themselves. This civil war is fought in the name of immortality. And when he wakens on the shores of the river, bathed in his blood and the blood of countless others, he feels forsaken. He remembers the blade that cut him down._

_He fought and he died under the banner of a king he doesn’t believe in. He fought and died in the name of immortality. And here he is, immortal._

_If it would stop this fighting, he’d give them his immortality, if only he could._

* * *

His blade is beautiful and ancient. His blade is graceful and deadly. His blade is all that he has left of his first home, and all that he’ll ever have. It is not one of those swords the elves fancied, it doesn’t light up in the presence of orcs. It lights up in the presence of other, much more dangerous, beings.

His blade lights up in the presence of others just like him. And engraved upon the blade, in a language as ancient as the first song itself, are the words ‘ _there can only be one.’_

This sword once belonged to a hunter. A feared hunter. A revered hunter. A fearless hunter. This sword once belonged to the Red Dragon. The most vicious of immortals. The most vicious of head hunters.

But he’s not a hunter anymore.

* * *

_“You must be new at this.” An unfamiliar voice says, as he struggles to his feet. “Or you’re just begging for death. I could have killed you at least four times since you woke up.” The voice continues, he wants to tell it to go away. His head is throbbing, his skin is crawling, everything in him screams ‘danger, danger, get away’ and he doesn’t know why. “Definitely new at this.” The voice says with a little sigh. “Well, I was looking for a student anyway. C’mon then, get up. You’ve got a lot to learn.”_

* * *

He hates the cities. It’s something he’s felt since he woke upon the shores of the Siril, but he expects it is something he won’t ever stop feeling. He hates cities. They’re brimming with immortals. So many of them just trying to survive, and all of them dodging the occasional head hunters that pass on through.

He hates cities. He hates palaces. He hates castles. He hates forts. And he hates anything where big groups of people gather. There’s always too many immortals to ever get away without having to take a head.

He hates cities. So how he ends up the Lord of one, is something he’s never going to understand.

* * *

_“Oh, come along now. You can’t be feeling that bad. What are you waiting for? Get up.” The voice is starting to get impatient. He struggles to his feet, stumbling a few steps as he brings his head up slowly, squinting through the pain at the owner of the voice._

_She’s a sight to behold. Long, dark hair billowing out behind her, a beautiful blue dress hanging from her frame, and eyes as bright as the stars. She reminds him of the paintings of Luthien he saw as a child. What is she doing here? Here of all places?_

_She smiles at him, eyes twinkling, and he resists the urge to trip all over his own feet and make an absolute fool of himself. Or, at least, more than he already has._

_“Men. You’re so easily dazzled.” She says, sighing softly and shaking her head. He watches the way her hair moves; she rolls her eyes at him. “You’re hopeless. I may have underestimated how long it’s going to_ _take to train you. Ah, well. I guess I can’t go back on that now, though.” She huffs, looking around them, she is not the least bit ruffled by the carnage strewn around them, or the blood that has soaked into the hem of her dress. “Pick up your sword, tell me your name, and let’s get out of here.”_

* * *

He blames her. If he’s forced to think about it. He blames her. She loves cities. They are her favourite hunting ground. Cities always have heads on offer for her taking.

But he wouldn’t be taking any heads. Not here. This is a sacred place. This is hallowed ground. There will be no challenges here. But that doesn’t mean the challenges themselves ever stop, or can’t be moved elsewhere.  

He hates cities. Honestly, he’s blaming her for this, and he’ll continue to blame her for this until the end.

Until there is only one and, one way or another, he’s consumed within the quickening.

* * *

_“Dale.” He tells her, picking up his sword, “my name is Dale.” She appraises him, eyes sharp and quick, and he feels like she’s looking right through him._

_“Well, Dale. I’m Tindomiel.” She informs him with a mischievous smile. “You most likely know more of my father than you know of me. But that isn’t surprising. I disappeared very quickly after my first death.”_

_“Are you-?”_

_“The only daughter of Elros Tar-Minyatur? That would be me in the flesh.” She answers, twirling in a circle. “Can’t you see the family resemblance? I’m often told I look like Luthien.” She makes a face, “Except, Luthien got to give up her immortality. I’m stuck with mine until someone comes along and chops off my head.”_

_“What?”_

_“That’s what you are now, dove. You’re an immortal, like me. And if you want to keep surviving in this world, you’re going to have to learn to take heads.”_

_“I know how to take heads.” Dale retorts, almost defensively. She raises an eyebrow at him in question, and he scowls, looking away. “I know how to take heads in_ practice _.”_

_“That’s what I thought.” she tells him, before a grin breaks out across her face. “C’mon. We’ve got a ship to catch out of here.”_

_“What?_

_“Well, they’re looking for immortality now. And when humans start doing that, we immortals jump ship. So...”_

_“But this place is-“_

_“It was your home. I get that, Dale. I understand, more than most possibly could. But you don’t have a home anymore, Dale. You’ll never have a home. Immortals don’t. We have halfway homes, places to rest between one destination and the next. You’re not mortal anymore, Dale. You can’t make a mortal life work. It never will. Now come on.”_

* * *

Why she named this stupid city after him, he’ll never know. But she did, and here he is, Lord Girion of Dale, and if someone hadn’t already beaten him to it, he’d make her pay for that.

So much for all that ‘we don’t have homes’ crap she’d spouted about more times than he can count. Now he doesn’t just have a home, but he has a wife, and he has a child, an adopted child, of course, but a child all the same.

Mortals are infuriating. Immortals aren’t much better, but at least they know how to cover their tracks.

He really hates cities.

* * *

_He makes her laugh. She thinks him her slowest student. She thinks him her most promising student. She thinks him worthy of the sword of Haleth. The last sword ever made by the hand of Haleth, the First Immortal. The sword that was made in Numenor for Tindomiel when she Woke. Tindomiel thinks him worthy. It takes him centuries to be worthy of it. By then, Numenor is sunk beneath the oceans and Haleth’s sword, Tindomiel, and his own memories are all he has left of the blessed isle._

_“Name your sword, if you wish.” Tindomiel tells him one day, they’re sitting on the bank of a river and watching the Men of Gondor moving noisily across the land._

_“What did you name it?” Dale asks, tracking an immortal to be._

_“Quickening.” Tindo answers simply, and Dale doesn’t respond._

_When she asks him later what he has decided to call it, he smiles at her and tells her to be patient, she’ll find out one day._

* * *

When the dragon comes for the city, he isn’t ready. The irony of the Red Dragon being defeated by a living, breathing red dragon, is not lost on him. He does not manage to kill the dragon this day. In payment, he loses his home, his wife, and his child. He is devastated.

He should not have let himself grow attached.

He drags himself from the ruins and crawls away to lick his wounds.

Light Bringer is all that he has to his name now.

* * *

_Tindomiel and he go their separate ways the eve of the new age. Tindomiel has taken on a new student, and it is time now for Dale to begin to do the same. Tindo thinks he will be a great Master, but reminds him to keep an eye on his apprentices._

_“After all, there can only be one.” She tells him, smiling widely, her eyes twinkling._

_“Says who?” Dale replies, it has begun to be his answer to that particular quote now, his enthusiasm for the game beginning to fail. He has lost more than enough to it._

_“The ancestors.” Tindo replies, unconcerned that immortals even_ have _ancestors, ancestors that no longer exist._

_“I guess.”_

* * *

He spends one hundred and sixty-three years wallowing in grief and self-pity when he finds her. She is on her own, thin and pale and stumbling her way through dangerous land. Even the most fearless of warriors path their way around Fangorn.

“Where are your parents?” he asks, she cocks her head to the side, and shrugs her shoulders, he frowns. “Did they just leave you all alone out here?” she shakes her head, and places her hands together, and tucks them against her left cheek, tilting her head to the side, miming sleep. “They’re sleeping?” the girl nods and smiles up at him, she holds her little arms up to him, and he sighs, bending to pick her up. “You shouldn’t be out here alone, little one, it’s not safe.” He tells her, putting her on his hip. She simply beams happily at him and snuggles up against him. “Yes, you’re very carefree, I’m getting that.”

“Tilda?!” a child’s voice screams somewhere nearby, and Dale turns to find an older girl running towards them through the trees, she’s still a child herself, not yet even a teenager. As she draws nearer, Dale feels her potential. “Tilda! I’ve been looking for you all over the place!” the young girl exclaims, “I told you not to wander off!”

“I’m assuming this little one belongs to you?” Dale asks, smiling at the elder girl, who looks at him critically.

“I guess she is now. What with ma and da _sleeping_ now, and all that.” The girl answers, standing up straighter and holding her head higher, as if expecting Dale to tell her to quit being silly.

“I can help you, if you’d like? It doesn’t look like either of you have been eating well, I can teach you to hunt.” The girl’s eyes light up, but only for a second before the excitement is masked.

“What do you get out of it?” she asks him, eyes narrowed, Dale snorts.

“I get to sleep at night knowing I didn’t leave two girls to their s _leep_.” He answers, knowing she and he understand neither of them truly mean sleep when they discuss it with _that_ intonation.

“Oh.” The girl answers, frowning heavily, before looking at the way Tilda has fallen asleep against Dale. “Alright. But if you hurt Tilda,” she says stepping closer, eyes dark, “You’ll never wake up.” She growls, Dale smiles and nods his head in understanding. She’ll make a great immortal one day.

“I’d expect nothing less.” Dale tells her, seriously. “Now, what’s your name?”

“Sigrid.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sigrid. I’m Dale.”

“What? Like that destroyed city near the cursed mountain?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

“Do you want to see it?” Dale asks, not knowing what prompts him to do so. But Sigrid’s eyes light up.

“When Tilda’s older, maybe.” She answers, the light still in her eyes, but it is dimmer now, Dale nods in understanding.

“Of course. Come on, we need to find shelter for the night.”

They settle down near the eaves of Fangorn and make a life for themselves. They don’t make any more progress towards Lake Town for three more years.

* * *

_When she sends him news of Dale, it comes in the form of the severed head of one of their enemies, with a note stuck to their head with an arrow. Tindomiel has never failed to get your attention if she wants it._

_‘I left you a present._

_Check the city near the Lonely Mountain._

_You’ll love it._

_T.‘_

_Dale doesn’t love it. But he learns to live with it. Admiring the city named for him. It’s pretty, in its own way, he acknowledges, because he knows when compliments and honesty are deserved. The city_ is _pretty. But it’s not for him, so he moves on._

_He sends his thanks to her in the form of the severed head of her current rival._

_He knows she’ll be overjoyed._

* * *

Bain stumbles into their midst as they’re finally making their way towards Lake Town. Tilda is all of five years old, and getting into as much trouble as she can, it drives Dale, he goes by Bard now, mad. The only thing keeping his sanity in check is Sigrid. She reigns her sister in like nothing Bard has ever seen.

It’s on one of Tilda’s trouble seeking missions that Bain stumbles upon them. Bard senses his potential long before they encounter the boy. But it is, of course, Tilda who finds him. 

“My da says it’s dangerous to wander around on your own!!” Tilda announces loudly, causing both Bard and Sigrid to turn quickly towards her, only to see her standing in front of a boy around Sigrid’s age. The boy blinks down at her.

“Maybe I’m not alone.” The boy finally responds, Tilda smiles and shakes her head.

“Nope. You’re alone. Da would have noticed, otherwise.” Tilda states before turning to Bard. “Can we keep him, da?!” she asks, turning on the puppy eyes. Bard looks at her helplessly before turning to the boy.

“We’re heading to Lake Town. You can come with us if you would like?” he offers; the boy looks at the three of them critically before he sighs heavily.

“I have nothing to lose, I guess.” Bard smiles, and waves him over.

And that is how Bard became a father of three.

* * *

_He knows when she is gone. He feels it all the way in Harad, and it is like a knife to the gut. Suddenly it is like the light has been sucked from the world, and he wonders if this is what it had been like when the Two Trees had gone out._

_He leaves Harad in a daze. Taking heads along the way as he can, the quickenings are the only things that keep him going. Each new spark adding to the flame of vengeance burning in his heart._

_She was pure. She was Twilight. She was a remnant of an old world. She was his Mistress. She was his friend. She was special. And now she is gone._

_The pain that burns in his heart knows no bounds._

_He will not rest until Tindomiel’s quickening lies within him._

* * *

It is easy to begin life in Lake Town. They don’t question his patronage, due to the fact that many of them call Bard the Second Coming of Girion. They build a life here. It’s not much, but their life in Fangorn wasn’t all that much, either. At least here, the children can grow up alongside other mortals. Because he prays that neither Bain nor Sigrid will ever recognize their potential.

Bard is the only Immortal in Lake Town. There are potentials, a handful of them. But there always are.

* * *

_The Red Dragon leaves a path of destruction and headless bodies in his wake as he journeys across the land in search of they who took his mistress’ head. Even the creatures of darkness cower away from him. The power he possesses is older than them. The song of the Immortals was woven within the Song of Creation itself. From the moment Melkor wove his seeds of dissent, the Immortals were created. Oh, they were nothing but pure energy until the creation of humans, but they didn’t know any better._

_It is suicide to get between him and his goal._

* * *

When the dwarves come, Bard wishes to believe the best of them. Bard wishes with all his might. But it is so hard. Especially when Thorin stands before him, and he wants so badly to tear Thorin to shreds. _Nothing good_ , he thinks, _will come of dwarves reclaiming that mountain. Nothing good ever comes._

When the dragon comes, he knows he should have done something to stop the dwarves. At the very least, he should have done something about Smaug sooner. His children are here. His children, who are so young and innocent. His children, who could die today. His children, two of which could become just like him _today._

Lake town is burning, there are people screaming, and Bard sees Dale in his mind. It is Dale all over. But he will win this time. Smaug will not survive. Not again. He will not fail twice.

* * *

 _He finds his target in Dale. Upon the throne, and his anger burns. An immortal in_ his _city has taken the head of his Twilight Mistress and stolen her sword and_ his _throne. He sees red and barely has the control to make his challenge, demand this insult be settled in private away from the prying eyes of the people, and beyond the confines of the city._

_His challenge is accepted._

_The two immortals meet in the Brown Lands, far from prying eyes. Their battle is intense, it rages on and off for three long days, before the other immortal stumbles. Dale takes his head in a single graceful move, and victory is sweet upon his tongue. But not as sweet as the quickening._

* * *

Lake Town burns, Smaug’s body smoulders, his people flounder, and they and his children look to him for guidance. He does not know what to do for them, the only chance they have now of survival is Dale, and even then, with Winter upon them, they’ll need some sort of miracle.

He has faith the elves will lend aid if asked, but it has been long since he last saw Thranduil, and Thror’s betrayal had only ever confirmed Thranduil’s own thoughts and fears about alliances with those whose greed can outweigh their common decency all too quickly.

And humans are so weak to temptation.

* * *

_He takes Dale. He doesn’t know why, he just does. Peacefully and without complaint, especially not after he tells them his name is Girion and they excitedly tell him that their Twilight Daughter had told them of him and his destiny before she’d been lost to them. Girion doesn’t bother asking what his supposed destiny is. Tindo always liked to imagine she had the gift of foresight. He’d only ever indulged her, and he knows that if he’d asked her about this, she wouldn’t have told him._

_Dale is his. He doesn’t want it, but it’s his all the same. This city and his sword are now the only things he has of Numenor. Tindomiel is a part of him, now. He’ll carry her with him always, but it isn’t like having her beside him, and it never will be._

_He stops hunting._

* * *

Thranduil comes to his aid. It’s more than Bard can possibly ask for, and to be perfectly honest, it’s more than he expected. Thranduil is willing to stand by Bard in opposition to the dwarves in the mountain. Those dwarves who promised them riches, and brought only despair and destruction. He was like them, once.

Thranduil does not recognize him. Oh, he recognizes him as a descendant of Girion, but not as Girion himself. Bard vows to never let Thranduil forget it when they’re done here. He’d _told_ Thranduil he was immortal. Perhaps he should have realized back then that Thranduil hadn’t believed him.

* * *

_When he meets Thranduil, it’s not like meeting the dwarves. Thror is a stuffy, grumpy old dwarf who has eyes for nothing but his fame and his riches. Girion cares for him not at all. But Thranduil is like a breath of fresh air. Thranduil reminds him of Tindo._

_The beautiful gowns that he seems to go out of his way to get rid of, Tindo used to do that. She’d always said it was a habit she’d gotten into as a child, trying to escape the finery her parents would clothe her in. So long as she was willing to keep wearing the nice clothes, they didn’t care if she ruined them all. Girion wonders if Thranduil is rebelling against his parents, too._

_Thranduil has an elegant mystery about him, a story that he tells with every breath he takes, and every movement he makes. Girion feels like he’s missed all the best bits. Tindo used to make him feel like that, too._

_Thranduil offers him wine and friendship, and Girion hasn’t had an immortal friend since Tindo died. He hasn’t had any friends since Tindo died._

_Thranduil is his first._

* * *

Bard dies in the Battle of Five Armies. It’s nothing notable, an arrow through his neck and he bleeds out in minutes, all the quicker for ripping the arrow out as he falls. He knows from previous experience that it doesn’t count as a decapitation, but it still hurts like a bitch to recover from.

When he wakes, it’s to eagles flying overhead, and the start of victory cries. All he wants is to find his children. He doesn’t care about anything else.  

* * *

_The friendship he shares with Thranduil is similar to the friendship he shared with Tindo in so many ways. But it’s different, too. Because Thranduil is different. It’s nice._

_Sometimes, the things they talk about aren’t nice things. Like their fears about Thror, and what his madness and greed will bring down upon them all. Like the evil growing in the forest, that Girion has started to notice, and Thranduil has tried, and failed, to ignore. Sometimes, they don’t talk about nice things. But Girion’s not a stranger to that. He and Tindo used to talk of taking heads. They used to sit and compare their kills. There aren’t many bad things to talk about that Girion hasn’t already discussed._

* * *

He feels her presence before he sees any of them. It makes his heart ache so painfully in his chest, it almost causes the pain in his neck to fade to insignificance. He never wanted this for her.

“What happened?” he demands of her, when he has sent her siblings to bed that night. Sigrid looks at him with a new light in her eyes, and Bard recognizes it for what it is. The temptation to take Bard’s head. He hasn’t taught her anything yet, and still the temptation is there. “Sigrid?”

“I died, da.” She states, pulling aside her coat to reveal the big read stain down the middle of her tunic. “I died.”

“I’m sorry.” Bard tells her, turning away and taking a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. “I never wanted this for you.”

“What’s happening to me, da?” she asks him, voice so desperate.

“You remember those stories I told you of mortals who die and wake immortal? The ones playing a game?”

“Those are just stories.” Sigrid retorts, Bard shakes his head, turning to look back at her.

“No, Sigrid. They’re real.” Bard says, running his hand through his hair. “I told you my name was Dale when we first met, you asked me if I was named for this city. This city was named for me.”

“What?”

“My teacher, she’s the reason Dale was built. She named it for me. She left it for me.” Bard admits, smiling softly when Sigrid looks at him with wide eyes. “Those stories I told you? They’re mine. They’re my journeys. They’re my teacher’s journeys. They’re her teacher’s journeys. You’re an immortal now, Sigrid. And I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Da. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No one does.”

* * *

_He’s restless. This is the first time in many centuries that he’s set down roots. That he has stayed in one place for longer than a few months. He’s restless. He has to constantly resist the urge to go out and hunt heads. He wants to play the game, but he promised himself when he took Dale that he wouldn’t be that person any longer. But he wants to play. He’s restless. He’s bored._

_He hates cities._

* * *

Amid ruling a kingdom and rekindling his relationship with Thranduil, he teaches Sigrid all that she needs to survive the Game. He gifts her Tindo’s sword. Tells her Tindo’s story, and makes her promise to always cherish the sword like it is the most precious thing she will ever possess, Sigrid promises, and then she asks if she’ll have to watch Tilda die.

Bard has no words to describe how sorry he is.

* * *

_Before he meets his wife, he and Thranduil have what the mortals would call a casual relationship. Thranduil defies his people’s laws and culture to be with him, so they make it a game. See how many times Girion can slip unnoticed into the Palace and into the King’s chambers, and back out again without being spotted._

_Galion alone spots him, and he says nothing at all._

* * *

Eventually, it’s time to move on, the people of Dale have begun to grow suspicious of their King and his eldest daughter, who show no signs of ageing. Bain is old enough now to take up the mantel of king, and Bard prays that his son will never become like him.

He says goodbye to his people, to Tilda and Bain, and he abdicates the throne. He and Sigrid leave the same day, for places unknown across the Brown Lands. When Thranduil first heard of his plans, he’d requested Bard take notes. Bard agrees to do so, if only to pass the time.

It will be many years before he returns, and when he does, it will be to an immortal Bain.

 


End file.
